


borne on the FM waves

by nymja



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Post TLJ, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 20:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13771563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: At some point, Ben’s hands fall from his hair to his sides-- one of them landing in the space between where they sit.Hesitantly, Rey lets one of her pinkies rest over his.--5 times Rey touches Ben in the Force Bond, and one time she doesn't.





	borne on the FM waves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misszeldasayre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misszeldasayre/gifts).



> hope you enjoy, friend!! <3

**one.**

Two weeks after Crait, there’s a dip in the bed. The new weight is enough to break Rey’s sleep, her eyes scrunching in annoyance as her fingers dig tightly into the scratchy fabric of the blanket that barely covers her body. It’s not unusual for people to bunk down where they can on the _Falcon,_ but she had claimed this spot, and there was an unspoken courtesy among what was left of the Resistance.

Absently, she kicks back with her bare foot, the heel of it connecting to someone’s leg.

“This is taken,” she mutters through her sleep, not even bothering to turn around.

She misses the look on the intruder’s face. The wide eyes, panicked and wondered, as he jerks into a seat at her touch.

Kylo had gone to lay down on his own bed, hands folded pensively over his stomach, and he’s woken up somewhere unknown.

Next to _her._

He can only stare. Her hair is undone, a sprawled out mess over the pillow. She sleeps hunched in on herself, elbows tucked into her torso and hands folded under her chin. She breathes evenly. There are sunburns on her shoulders.

He thinks about doing so many things, in that moment. He could kill her, and no one would know. He could brush back the hair on her neck, and no one would know about that, either. He could say her name, force her to acknowledge him in a way she hasn’t since his offer was cruelly refused.

Kylo’s gloved hand stretches toward her shoulder-

Rey rolls over.

-and there’s no one there.

 

**two.**

Three days and two weeks after Crait, Rey is entombed in a small engine room, a string of tools wrapped around her waist. She uses a small maglight to trace the culprit of the coolant leak. The foul-smelling liquid is up to her shins, steam and heat from cylinders leaving her sweating and exhausted as she rummages through endless coils of wire. Not for the first time, she’s amazed and annoyed at Han Solo’s ingenius engineering strategies.

“Any luck?” Rose calls down from the top of the hatch, her face blotting out some of the light as she looks down into the pit Rey’s called home for the last hour and a half.

“Almost!” She calls up, running the back of her hand across her forehead and leaving a trail of grease. “Just need to find the emulator-!”

There is someone behind her.

Rey tenses, swallowing hard. She feels something strong and solid at her back, feels it move with inhales and exhales. There are sloshing sounds being made from boots that don’t belong to her. There is breath on the shell of her ear.

She doesn’t have to ask who it is. She knows who it is. And her body reacts accordingly-- it tenses, muscles in her arms and shoulders straining as she attempts to lean away from him in the enclosed space, a pain in her temple blossoming from a clenched jaw.

“What are you doing?” His voice is level and deep and lands on the side of her neck.

When she doesn’t answer, he gives an experimental kick. Coolant sloshes around them both.

“Swimming?” He guesses. She feels him shake his head. “No, not you.”

There’s a deep inhale, and she feels it stir the small hairs on the back of her neck. “Smells like...coolant.”

“I didn’t want to see you again,” she states.

There’s an anger that radiates at her back, but the voice is carefully flat. “I’m not here just because _I_ want to be.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Stop holding on, Rey.”

She doesn’t like her name coming from him. Doesn’t like how he says it. So she swallows down her anger, and keeps her tone as normal as she can when she calls up to Rose.

“I’ll need another patching kit!”

“Sec!”

He snorts. “The ship’s still a piece of junk, I see.”

It’s almost enough to goad her. To make her turn on her heels and face him directly. But she keeps her anger (her hurt) locked within herself--a hard, angry circle that she hopes will one day collapse so she can do whatever it is she must do when they meet--actually meet--again.

“Tossing it down!” Rose calls.

There’s the brief sight of canvas, and Rey reaches up for the descending kit.

He grabs it first.

The motion is fast-- a blur of black, the snap of his gloved fingers around it. Rey looks up to see him holding it above her head.

Her eyes widen. He shouldn’t be able to do that. He shouldn’t be able to see the kit, let alone hold it.

“Interesting.” He brings it down, lower, until it’s at Rey’s shoulder and easy for her to grab. “Maybe…” and now his voice sounds different. Hoarser. “Maybe we’re not finished, yet.”

She takes a deep breath. Slowly brings her fingers to his. A quick, light brush of skin to glove-

And then she rips the kit away from him.

There’s what sounds like a half-formed yell of frustration, and then the weight at her back is gone.

 

**three.**

Four weeks after Crait, they Rebellion has made surfaceside camp on the outskirts of the Hibraskan system. The morning is early, and streaks the sky in unique yellows and greens. And Rey is in the middle of her forms when her feet go from well-tractioned earth to seamless, chromatium flooring. She slides, hastily disengaging her lightsaber and managing to catch her balance just before she runs into the most immovable object she’s ever met.

“What!” She shouts, not trying to hide her annoyance or the conflict she feels roiling within her like a storm. “What is it now?”

Ben looks down at her, his expression just as confused as her own. He looks worse than last time, his skin so pale it’s almost sallow and his eyes red-rimmed. But they’re focused, entirely focused, on her.

“You were thinking of me,” he breathes out in awe. “You must have been.”

“You’re trying to kill me,” she snaps, “Of course you’re on my mind.”

Ben’s brows furrow, drawing attention to the scar that bisects his face. “That’s not why.” He doesn’t sound convinced by his own statement.

He takes a step closer to her.

Both her palms lay flat against his chest and she _shoves_.

“We’re not _friends,_ Ben!” She shakes her head. “We...we could have been, but you. You did what you did.”

He takes a half step back. Then he brings his own hand to his chest, as though he can’t believe she’d push him away. For a moment, he’s raw and vulnerable and Rey bites down on her lip at the sight of it as she tries very hard not to blink.

And then his mouth curls down into a sneer. His eyes harden.

“You know we were never meant to be _friends,_ Rey.”

They have a second to look at each other, to feel the pain that radiates in them, though neither wish for it.

Rey closes her eyes, and when they open there’s only the dirt and the yellow-green sky.

 

**four.**

Three months after Crait, the Resistance has their first, inevitable encounter with the First Order. It’s a raid, and while they have nine thousand evacuation protocols memorized by every member, there are still risks. Still casualties.

Rey does her best to protect some of the Force sensitive children they’ve rescued on Cantonica. She fends off Stormtroopers until the last second with her new saberstaff, giving them ample time to load onto the _Falcon_ and abandon their makeshift encampment. She doesn’t remember much about being shot, only that she apparently was, because one moment she is Force pushing a melee specialist into some trees, and the next she is waking up with bleary eyes and nausea.

She tries to move, to push herself up out of the medical cot she’s found herself on, but her limbs feel useless--sedated, likely. Unable to move, she tries to take stock of what she knows about her surroundings.

She’s hooked up to at least three life support machines.  
She’s on the _Falcon._ _  
_ And Ben has a desk right next to her cot, where he sits writing something.

Rey blinks. Like before, she senses that he is somewhere else. Unlike before, she can see it--distorted and blurred, but _visible_ nonetheless. He’s in his personal quarters, everything black and devoid of personality. He wears a comfortable tunic and pants, but his hands and feet are bare. His hair is mussed, back hunched.

And when he senses that she’s awake, he goes completely still. Then he turns, looking at her softly.

Rey swallows, and doesn’t say anything. She knows, without him having to speak, that he’s been here as long as she has. That he’s been waiting for her to move or stir. Her gaze darts to the desk, and she sees that he’s been working on something involving ink and parchment--obscure, esoteric symbols she does not recognize.

He pivots in his seat, turning his chair to be at her bedside. Rey is certain, then, that whatever happened in their escape had been far too close of a call. That there are dark circles under his eyes. That he waited for her.

Soundlessly, she lifts up her arm and her fingers grab hold of his sleeve. He swallows. Rey gives the gentlest of tugs, before her mind fades back into unconsciousness.

 

**five.**

Six months after Crait, Rey ducks down to the left. Just in time to avoid being smashed by a levitating console. The move is pure instinct and muscle memory, because the first thing that catches her attention is the smell. The room smells _burnt--_ burnt fabric, burnt carbon, burnt wires. Her eyes drift over the space, which is chromatic where it isn’t charred, and she recognizes the area.

It’s Ben’s quarters. Where he sat at a desk.

Where he’s currently in the middle of... _something._ To call it a tantrum negates the violence in his actions. Before he realizes she’s there, he’s slammed his lightsaber into the wall, over and over again. He then punches where the lightsaber hit, not doubt bruising or even breaking something. The console Rey barely dodged crashes into the wall behind her and becomes a smoking heap of rubble.

Still not realizing she’s there, with him, Ben staggers to what must be his bed (it’s awfully flat, painful looking) and sits on the edge of it. He bows over, elbows resting on his knees, and breathes harshly as his fingers dig into his sweat-streaked hair.

“What’s going on?” Rey asks, wishing she could have stopped herself. But she can’t. Not when Ben’s like...this.

He goes still at her voice, his heaving back tempering into slower and deeper breaths. “Come to laugh at me, too?” He snarls.

Rey takes a few steps closer. “When have I ever laughed at you?”

There’s silence, as he no doubt tries to come up with an example and fails. At his quiet, Rey takes a seat on the other side of his bed--plenty of space still between them.

The room is sparking from destroyed electric and ionic material, and Rey can see embers gradually dying around the shredded metal and fabric. But Ben says nothing and offers no explanation, and she doesn’t feel the need to pry for one, so they just sit together.

Time passes, and Rey starts to feel his frustrations through the bond they share. Leading the First Order is not going the way he planned. Someone called Hux is likely sabotaging his efforts. There’s talk of mutiny.

But, more importantly…

His mother shut him out. A part of him that always whispered has gone silent.

Rey knows why. The Resistance is relocating to what will hopefully be a permanent base. They’re also planning a major strike. Ben _can’t_ know these things if they’re going to survive, and Leia’s mind is full of their secrets. She entertains the idea of explaining this to him, but knows it won’t make a difference. Pain is pain, abandonment is abandonment. Loneliness is loneliness. Rey knows this better than anyone.

So she sits. And he sits. At some point, Ben’s hands fall from his hair to his sides-- one of them in the space between where they sit.

Hesitantly, Rey lets one of her pinkies rest over his.

And the pair of them stare out the viewport, at the bleak vastness of space.

 

**one.**

One year after Crait, they meet for the first time face to face. The Resistance has struck at a First Order black site, raining ion torpedoes on data files and archives in hopes of stalling manufacturing.

It’s not a question that they would find each other. Somehow, they always seem to.

She covers some retreating operatives as he emerges like a black storm cloud on the horizon. There are Stormtroopers behind him, but he barks something and they break away, targeting other Resistance forces. Ones that aren’t _her._

She does likewise with the operatives. They send her concerned looks before they make for the relative cover of the treeline.

Rey steps forward, but doesn’t draw her lightsaber. Ben, she notices, hasn’t ignited his either. They are calm, as they get closer. Paces steady, eyes not breaking contact.

She stops just short of the edge of his boots. They are black and polished to a shine, hers are muddied and scored. Rey rolls her shoulders, and doesn’t run.

“I’m not going to fight you.”

He nods. “I know.”

“Are you going to fight me?”

His expression is strained, calculating. But finally he shakes his head.

“...that’s what I thought,” she whispers.

They watch each other. The battle becomes background noise. In a moment of stupid bravery, Rey brings her fingers up to trace over the line of his cheek.

“I think,” her hand trembles against his skin. “I may have missed you.”

He presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist. She curls her fingers into her palm at its warmth, surprised but unsurprised by it. By how they stand across from each other and neither is reaching for a weapon.

“And I think…” She looks down. “I don’t want you to die.”

Ben meets her eyes. They are dark and endless and welling with something she doesn’t quite have a word for yet. He brings her hand to his chest and holds it there, lets her feel the pattern of his heartbeat underneath the quilted tunic he favors.

“That’s a start,” he states, crossing that final step between them.

She doesn’t back away. And when he nervously brings his bare fingers to brush up her neck, then into her hair, she leans against him.

He holds her, as the explosions begin to sound. And she doesn’t push away.


End file.
